Boogie’s only other duty was to make sure the large air-conditioning unit in the bedroom window was kept running at all times. (Though the front room had a ceiling fan, it was otherwise uncooled.) Smith explained that the bedroom contained, among other things, temperature-sensitive pharmaceuticals. At least twice a day—once in the morning and again in the afternoon—Boogie was to go outside and make sure the bedroom unit was functioning properly. If for any reason it stopped—a fan belt broke, say, or the building lost power—he was to immediately call the number written on a slip of paper attached to the fridge with a frog magnet. In all probability no one would answer, but he should leave a detailed message. If Smith needed to communicate with Boogie, he’d call him on apartment 107’s telephone. When Boogie inquired if they’d meet at some point, William Smith said it was possible but unlikely. If the terms and conditions they’d just discussed were acceptable, he could begin work the following morning.
Boogie hung up half expecting to learn that the whole thing had been a hoax perpetrated by some asshole at Gert’s, maybe even Gert himself. Because drinking beer and watching TV were things he’d always paid to do at the tavern, this deal really seemed too good to be true. That very night, though, returning to the Arms, he found an envelope containing a key to apartment 107 in his mailbox, as per his conversation with William Smith, and the following morning there was another that contained half of his first week’s pay in advance and in cash.
By nature Boogie was neither curious nor thoughtful nor complex. Politically, he considered himself a libertarian. He disapproved of most laws and all government intrusion. On general principle he didn’t like being told what to do or what was good for him. He prided himself on never having to be told to mind his own business. Certainly anyone willing to pay him to drink beer and watch television was entitled to his privacy. It occurred to him, of course, that William Smith might not be his employer’s real name and the man probably hadn’t been completely forthcoming about his “business.” Also that his “inventory” might not be one hundred percent lawful, but what concern was that of his? He wasn’t a policeman. Once, toward the end of his first week, Boogie did suffer something akin to misgiving. That afternoon, when the television cut away from an old sitcom he was watching and the commercial didn’t come on right away, in the momentary silence that ensued he thought he heard a baby’s rattle shaking behind the bedroom door. While he disliked children of all ages, Boogie wasn’t sure he approved of leaving an infant alone all day in a locked room. But then he’d thought the whole thing through and came to the reasonable and reassuring conclusion that he must’ve been mistaken. A baby would cry and make a fuss every time it wanted its nasty diaper changed; it would cry for its bottle. No, that rattle was a figment of his imagination. Or maybe it had come from outside in the corridor.
Though generally laid-back, Boogie was, however, prey to the occasional resentment. That he wasn’t allowed to use the toilet rankled him. During the second week of his employment, the weather turned unseasonably hot and the front room was like an oven, even with the ceiling fan on high. Why should the bedroom’s AC be off-limits? Besides, locking him out of the bedroom was downright offensive, implying he wasn’t trustworthy. Also, though he’d been warned that he might never actually meet William Smith, it was borderline rude that the man hadn’t stopped by to introduce himself. Because he clearly was, however briefly, visiting the apartment. The packages Boogie put in the fridge never remained there more than two or three days before being relocated, Boogie assumed, to the bedroom. Every time it looked like Boogie might run out of beer, another case or two would magically appear.
Most days there was at least one delivery. The packages, which varied in size, were mostly flat, rectangular and marked PERISHABLE. One day Boogie signed for a box that was twice the size of the others, and its contents shifted like a half-full water bottle when he took it from the UPS man. Putting the box in the fridge as instructed, Boogie stood before the open door, wondering why, if these goods were indeed perishable, the temperature inside the fridge was set at fifty-five degrees.
The next afternoon, after depositing another package in the fridge, he noticed a long handle—maybe a broom?—in the gap between the fridge and the wall that hadn’t caught his attention before. Reaching into the narrow space, he pulled out an odd-looking contraption whose purpose he couldn’t immediately divine. At the lower end of the shaft was a bright orange V-grip; at the upper end a set of padded tongs. Sure enough, when you squeezed the handle, the open tongs closed, and relaxing the grip caused them to open again. Obviously, the implement was designed to grab hold of something, but what? An object stored out of reach on a high shelf, perhaps? There wouldn’t be much use for such a tool at the Morrison Arms. At five feet seven inches, Boogie could practically touch the ceiling when he stood on his tiptoes. Huh, he thought, that single syllable pretty much exhausting his curiosity. He stuck whatever the fucking thing was back behind the fridge. What difference did it make what it was used for? For that matter, if you yourself weren’t storing anything in it, what difference did it make that the fridge was running at a lukewarm temperature? Life was full of such meaningless riddles, and one of Boogie’s great skills had always been his ability to ignore anything that might’ve seemed troubling had he been foolish enough to think about it.
That night, however, upstairs in his own bed, he sat straight up, his disobedient unconscious mind having solved in his sleep the riddle of this bizarre tool. The tongs weren’t designed to fetch inanimate objects but to seize something all too animate that was best kept at a safe distance, something that might die if the temperature got too cold and would wake angry if it was too warm. It wasn’t a baby rattle he’d heard; it was a snake’s. “William Smith” was collecting reptiles, to what purpose Boogie couldn’t fathom.
Knowledge was not a state to which he’d ever particularly aspired, much preferring the bliss of ignorance. The realization that the only thing between him and a roomful of snakes was a plywood door seriously undermined his hard-won alcoholic equanimity. Whereas before he’d righteously resented the locked bedroom door, he now checked first thing in the morning to make sure it was locked. While he’d seen little purpose in going outside twice every day to see if the damn AC was still humming along, he now inspected it hourly. Try as he might, he could no longer get comfortable anywhere in the apartment. Television shows that had always held his attention were suddenly boring. One minute he’d be staring at the screen, and the next he’d be across the room pressing his ear against the bedroom door, straining to hear any stirring or rattling. If he drifted off, he’d awake in a panic, convinced something had just slithered over his feet, and whenever the UPS guy knocked he’d just about leap out of his skin. While in the beginning he liked to polish off at least a case of beer daily, it was now all he could do to drink a mere six-pack, which meant that by the end of the afternoon he was approaching sobriety, a condition he found both unnatural and tiresome. When he tried to eat, solid food instantly liquefied in his stomach and required him to gallop upstairs to his own apartment, and when he rose from the toilet, his sphincter on fire, he’d glimpse his sunken face in the bathroom mirror. He was becoming a wreck. Well, maybe he already was one, but still. As much as he hated the idea of missing all this money and free beer, he’d just have to tell William Smith to find someone else.
The following day, Wednesday, after a sleepless night, Boogie called the number under the frog magnet. No one answered, but the same voice he’d heard earlier came on the answering machine. “I’m not here. Leave a message.”
“Mr. Smith,” he said, “this is Rolfe Waggengneckt…uh, Boogie. I’m sorry, but I can’t work for you anymore. After today, you’ll have to find a replacement.”
After he hung up, the phone rang before he could make it back to the sofa. “Two weeks’ notice is customary,” said the voice by way of hello.
“You only hired me for three, and I already worked two,” Boogie blurted, not unr
easonably.
“That still leaves one.”
Not knowing what else to do, Boogie decided to come clean. “I know what’s in the bedroom.”
“The snakes, you mean?” His employer didn’t seem alarmed in the least by Boogie’s discovery. “Or the guns?”
Guns?
“Or the drugs?”
Drugs?
“The snakes,” Boogie clarified. “I’m afraid of them.”
“They’re in cages.”
“They’re in my dreams. I can’t think about nothing else.”
“I’m sorry, but you quitting now is inconvenient.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I need you through Friday, at least.”
“I’m sorry,” Boogie repeated.
“How would you like it,” the man whispered, “if I dropped by your apartment some night with a guest?”
“A guest?”
“Have you ever noticed how your apartment door doesn’t fit flush with the floor?”
Boogie had in fact noticed this, and he broke into a flop sweat.
“As I said, I need you through the end of the week.”
“Okay,” Boogie said, not wanting William Smith to be visiting his apartment with any guest.
The next morning, Thursday, the phone rang shortly after he arrived in 107. “Is everything good?” the voice wanted to know.
“It’s hot,” Boogie told him. The thermostat in the front room had already registered ninety, and it wasn’t even nine o’clock.
“Turn the ceiling fan on high.”
“It is,” Boogie said, but the line had already gone dead. Clearly, the only reason William Smith had called was to make sure he’d reported for duty.
The next day, Friday, was even worse, the front room a sauna when he stepped inside. After two nights in a row without sleep, his exhaustion complete, his mind was blank except for ambient dread. He immediately stripped down to his skivvies and took a beer from the minifridge, not to drink but to roll over his forehead and the back of his neck. When he looked around the apartment, something felt different. Had William Smith been there during the night? He checked the fridge. Nope, the UPS box delivered yesterday was still there. And yet, though Boogie had never met the man, his presence was palpable. Could he possibly be in the bedroom with the snakes, spying on him? Ridiculous. Boogie was becoming unhinged.
Clearly, even this early in the morning, the only thing to do was to get drunk. If the alcohol failed to dispel his terror, it would still make these final eight hours pass more quickly. He reminded himself that he was just doing, one final time, what he’d done for the past two weeks without mishap. The reptiles were all safely in cages, a danger to no one. Soon the nightmare would be over. He guzzled a beer, vomited into the sink, drank another. When this one stayed down, he popped a third and turned on the television to a game show with the volume on mute.
By midmorning unwelcome thoughts uncoiled and slithered around in his head. What guarantee did he have that Smith wouldn’t telephone that afternoon and demand that he stay on for another week? Given how much Boogie knew about his varied “inventory,” could Smith afford to just let him quit and hope he wouldn’t rat him out to the cops? What if he was upstairs right now, slipping some serpent under his apartment door? Wouldn’t it make more sense to do unto William Smith before William Smith did unto him? If he called the cops, they could be here in a matter of minutes, and his employer would be a wanted man. So Boogie went over to the wall phone and picked up the receiver. At the dial tone, though, he hung up. Paralyzed by indecision, he got himself another beer. When it was empty, he went back to the phone. This time, at the tone he dialed 911, just to make sure it did connect to the police station. When the lady there answered, he hung up again and drank another beer, felt a sudden gastrointestinal emergency and bolted upstairs to his apartment, barely making it to the toilet before his bowels exploded. Back downstairs, he went to the phone once more, this time determined to complete the call.
It was then that Murphy’s law, which even a libertarian like Boogie was subject to, kicked into gear. Whatever could go wrong did. When he dialed 9, all the lights went out, the TV went silent, the ceiling fan ceased to squeak, the fridge quit humming. The clock on the wall stopped ticking—and along with it, very nearly, his own heart. With the curtains drawn, the room was almost completely dark. In Boogie’s addled mind, hitting that 9 and the lights going out were linked by cause and effect. Was his boss so clairvoyant that he knew not only that his employee was about to betray him but also the exact moment the betrayal would occur? Or had he installed a camera somewhere in the front room so he could keep tabs on him? Boogie quickly slammed the phone down and held up his hands in the classic posture of surrender, as if Smith were in the room with him and holding a loaded gun. He held that pose for several minutes, until he began to feel silly. When he heard a siren outside he went over to the front window and peered out from behind the curtain. The world outside looked bizarrely normal. The old black dude was seated in his folding chair like always, waving his little flag at passing cars. Get a grip, he said out loud, the sound of his own voice suddenly reassuring. The thing to do was call William Smith and press his claim as a loyal, competent employee, not somebody who’d fink on an employer who had, except for one vague little death threat, treated him very considerately.
Again, the answering machine picked up and the voice said: “I’m not here. Leave a message.”
“Mr. Smith? It’s Boogie. We just lost power.”
From behind the bedroom door, unless this was his own dementia, came a rattle. Could the room possibly be getting warm already?
“What am I supposed to do?” he whimpered. “If you’re there, could you please pick up?”
Setting the phone down on the counter, he went over to the bedroom door and put his ear to it. Nothing but silence. Don’t knock, he told himself, then knocked. In immediate response, not one rattle but several.
He grabbed the phone. “They’re waking up, Mr. Smith. I can hear them in there.”
Not just rattles now but, unless he was imagining it, hissing.
“So I called, just like you said,” he told the man who wasn’t there. “I done everything you asked.” Where was the guy? The last time, he’d returned Boogie’s call right away. Why couldn’t he just pick up now and say, Don’t worry, Boogie. I know you did. It’s my problem now. You go on over to Gert’s and have one from the tap.
Only when the answering machine’s tape cut off did he hang up and return to the bedroom door. The hissing had stopped, and he now heard the soft sounds of creatures waking up restless, of unlidded eyes opening, of triangular heads lifting up, of uncoiling. Of other smaller, terrified things scurrying in their cages and hiding under scraps of newspaper. Also of metal and wire mesh being strained, expanded, tentatively at first, then with greater purpose.
It occurred to Boogie, standing there in his skivvies, that should flight become necessary, he was ill prepared. He’d do well to at least put his trousers on. His shoes. Though, really, this was crazy thinking. As long as there was a locked door between him and these pissed-off reptiles, he was in no danger. That door fit snug to the carpet, and nothing could slither beneath it. Unfortunately, no sooner had he reassured himself of this than he perversely pictured a tiny triangular head pushing through the crease, going rigid when it spotted him, then burrowing forward with renewed purpose.
Grabbing his pants off the back of the kitchen chair, he was frantically trying to pull them on, one leg at a time, when he heard the cage topple over in the bedroom. The sound froze him in position, balanced on one leg, his full attention on the door itself, which he half expected to open despite being locked. But then a terrifying thought occurred to him: Was it locked? He’d been in such a state that morning that he hadn’t even checked! How could he have been so stupid? This question seemed to answer itself. Because he was an idiot. He’d been one all his life. His wife had told him this many times before cutting her
losses and running. There was nothing left to do but prove it again, so instead of pulling up his trousers he hopped over to the bedroom door, one leg in, one leg out. He turned the doorknob to the right, as he’d done so many times in the past, to make sure it was locked. It wasn’t, of course, and why would it be, Boogie thought with stunning clarity as his weight swung the door inward. Now that he knew what was in there, William Smith had no further reason to lock it up. Boogie’s sheer terror would keep him out.
Tangled in his pants and heavy with beer, Boogie tumbled to his knees. The bedroom was dark, illuminated only by the light spilling in from the front room. But he was able to see more than he wanted to. He could make out the outlines of the stacked cages, the slow uncoiling of the dark ropes they contained. And of course the cage that had fallen, its door sprung.
He didn’t see the cobra, though, until it stood up.
The Two Rubs
RUB SQUEERS AND HIS WIFE, Bootsie, lived in a ramshackle farmhouse on a lonely stretch of two-lane county blacktop west of town where the rents were cheap. When the wind was right, as it was this evening, you could smell the nearby landfill. It was nearly dark by the time Sully pulled into their drive and parked behind their dented, two-tone Subaru. “Stay,” he told Rub’s namesake, who stood panting beside him in the front seat. The dog sighed mightily but obediently flopped down onto the seat, his chin on his front paws. Having spent much of the day in Miss Beryl’s cellar he was anxious to be let loose, Sully could tell, but there was a patch of woods out back of the Squeerses’ house where, this close to the dump, he was liable to encounter a skunk. Half an hour from now, with any luck, Sully hoped to be settling onto his favorite barstool at the Horse, not home giving the stupid little shit a tomato-juice bath.
Everybody's Fool Page 20
